The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  “Do you want to go to jail, Sasha?”

  “If that’s what you want,” replied Sashka.

  They were silent for a while. They were alone in Griboedov’s study. Nino was not there.

  “Don’t I treat you well?” asked Griboedov quietly.

  Sashka stood in the room like a piece of furniture, like a fragment of Moscow, of Griboedov’s student years.

  “Where were you headed for?” asked Griboedov.

  He thought perhaps that Sashka had been off to Moscow.

  Sashka replied with an effort, and in a hollow voice:

  “They say that there are Russian people living outside Tabriz …”

  “What, were you taking off to join the runaways, that scum?” asked Griboedov, and rose to his feet.

  Sashka bit his lips.

  “The mistress harasses me,” he said abruptly.

  Griboedov stared at Sashka, whom he had known for fifteen years:

  “You are making it up,” he said spreading his arms helplessly and suddenly flushed up. “Get the hell out of here, you idiot.”

  And when Sashka left, he rubbed his forehead.

  In the middle of the night, passing by Sashka’s little den, he pressed his ear to the door.

  It was pitch dark in the room, but he thought he heard Sashka tossing and turning in anguish, and heard a kind of hollow murmuring:

  “Mama … she’s long dead”

  Griboedov listened for a some time.

  The papers that he had received were of an unpleasant kind. Paskevich had suffered a defeat and demanded that the kurors be paid immediately. The troops should also be withdrawn from Khoi without delay. Perhaps he was even pleased with the defeat because now he could honorably share Nesselrode’s opinion of Paskevich. The extent of the failure was unknown and from a distance seemed enormous.

  The entire plan of action had to be changed at a stroke.

  10

  Abbas was pensive. Abbas was cheerful. A miniature of Nicholas was pinned to his chest, his attire was quite simple, and only the dagger behind his belt sparkled with precious stones.

  His lies had all the dignity of sincerity and in the end turned out to be the truth.

  “It requires a long time to prepare a nation for war,” he said to Griboedov with great dignity. “We’ve only just begun, while you too had trying times until you reached the present-day state of affairs.”

  Only in ancient Rome could there have been such swarthy and lusterless faces and such fluttering nostrils.

  “… And I have lost nothing in this war if I have gained your trust.”

  He sat motionlessly—to pace the room while talking is the habit of the Europeans and madmen. But Abbas’s fingers twitched, his eyes danced.

  “I am glad that I am talking to you, a happy man. Your eyes have now grown accustomed to happiness. Regrettably, I still don’t know what your wife really likes: does she care for silks, or sweets, perhaps? Women’s tastes are hard to guess. I wouldn’t like your wife to be bored here—she would blame me for that. Women always do.”

  “We are quite happy, Your Highness, and my wife has asked me to convey to you her gratitude for all your trouble.”

  He had now to praise something, but was at a loss what exactly to come up with. To praise the children was inappropriate: this might jinx them, and talking about wives was completely out of bounds.

  “The fruit from Your Highness’s orchard is unbelievably fragrant.”

  “That came from France; my orchard is withering.”

  And Abbas speaks simply, as he does about sweets:

  “And my country has been withering too. Mon cher ami, you’ve had a chance to look around, you’ve spoken to me, I’ve spoken to you. Write off the two kurors, parce que dans ma poche il n’y a qu’un sou, monsieur. ”6

  The country is indeed withering. Griboedov sits poker-straight. His voice is dry:

  “Your Highness, permit me to be frank with you. I was just about to tell you: pay the two kurors immediately, as any further delay might lead to disaster.”

  The fingers stop their smooth dance, and Abbas looks perplexed: finally, finally, he has spoken. And how!

  “Yes, but your superior, the great boss, made me a promise.”

  Paskevich has promised him nothing of the sort.

  “I am afraid, Your Highness, that I will nevertheless be placed in a position in which I will be obliged to demand immediate payment. We’ve waited long enough, Your Highness. I can see for myself the situation in your region. But His Majesty?”

  Abbas fondles his dagger.

  “Ah,” his fingers crawl up and down the diamonds, as though it were a keyboard, from the handle to the point of the blade. “Ah, His Majesty does not want to hear anything about it. I am left to my own devices. You are my only hope.

  “Look here,” he goes on, and suddenly calms down, “listen, I’ve found the means. I shall be completely candid with you. I will pay a visit to Petersburg to my friend the emperor. I am so beset. I would like to relax. There are so many wonderful things in your fatherland. I will visit the great vizier Nesselrode. Is it true that the Village of the Tsars is absolutely stunning? I’ve been told so.”

  The rays of light are darting about the rugs, blue, yellow, green, and violet. Now an Indian scroll, now a Persian rectangle come to life.

  “I would like to explain myself at last to the emperor, man to man.”

  “I believe that the emperor would be delighted to see Your Highness, in spite of his tireless military labors.”

  “Precisely because of them,” says Abbas firmly. “I would tell my uncle, the emperor: if he were to recall the decisive day of his dynasty, he would understand me, as one heir another. My hour has come. The wheel of fortune goes up and down. And it’s not much joy when it goes down. Good fortune is like a woman—its face is veiled.”

  A wide, fixed smile on his face, the white teeth—and who could read the meaning of his stare?

  “Is Your Highness hinting at the rumor of General Paskevich’s alleged defeat?”

  And Griboedov laughs as if speaking to Faddei. Abbas laughs too. He will now say something about the fruit, about women, about …

  “This is exactly what I am hinting at.” He is admiring the change in Vazir-Mukhtar’s face. “The thing is that His Majesty the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire is sending his ambassador to me and is proposing to join forces against you.”

  He says all this in the same way that he talks about fruit, about silk, about tobacco.

  “What a shame that I’ve never seen your capital cities, my dear Griboedov. Don’t you have two of them, as we do?”

  “There will soon be three of them, Your Highness.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Abbas does not understand.

  “The third one will be Istanbul.”

  Abbas speaks rapidly:

  “You are a force to be reckoned with. This is beyond any doubt. I suggest an alliance with your emperor. His Majesty the Sultan does not always stick to our arrangements. I will take over the command.”

  Griboedov sighs:

  “I am afraid that Your Highness is late. Bayazit is in our hands. Mus and Van will soon surrender. Wouldn’t Your Highness’s actions impede our operations?”

  Abbas sits back:

  “What use is Van to me? That’s no way to wage a war, dear Griboedov. I will bypass Van; I will advance to Baghdad. The sheikh of Karbala is expecting me, and if I show up, a rebellion will incinerate the Ottomans.”

  The plan is drawn. “I will show up”—he said it as Vasya Karatygin did at the Bolshoi Theater. But Vasya Karatygin had no smile on his face. And if Abbas were serious and his nostrils flared, that would mean he was bluffing. But he is smiling; consequently, he is sure of himself; consequently he is not lying.

  Griboedov bows his head low, slowly, in front of the smile, before the shallow, indecisive and impulsive youth with the black beard. Yes, he is made from the very same material as Napoleon … a
nd … Charles XII. He still has some superfluous features. But he might yet shift Iran, his old rattletrap of a country up the hill, and he might yet tumble down the hill. That’s why Griboedov bows his head—he cannot show his admiration, cannot let him see it.

  When Griboedov is about to leave, Abbas reiterates as if he isn’t the one who said he will show up:

  “My highly esteemed brother, Hussein-Ali-Mirza, writes to me that since our country is growing poor, I should accept the gifts from His Majesty the Sultan. What can I say to that? I am a mere mortal. And my country is growing poorer. Forgive me the two kurors, will you?”

  Rain muddies the impoverished, bare, yellow streets of Tabriz.

  Griboedov drives home, and the ferrashi cudgel with wet sticks the hardened backs of the human traffic.

  11

  And the cases multiplied, landed on his desk in a heap—the cases of Russian prisoners, the petitions of Armenian families eager to migrate to Russia, Abbas’s wives’ diamonds, the rumors of Paskevich’s defeats, and the tumen, thousands of tumen.

  Abbas was destitute; Azerbaijan was bare.

  His muhessili handed over all the tax money to the stronghold at the Russian legation, while the salaries of the Persian officials and the harem were in arrears. The diamond buttons of Abbas’s favorite wives were cut from their clothes.

  Unrest was simmering in Khorasan.

  Open insurgency broke out in the city of Yazd and the surrounding area.

  In the Lorestan province, Mahmud and Mahmed-Taghi, the two shah-zades, fought each other. There was butchery there.

  Kerman rebelled against Shah-zade Hassan-Ali-Mirza, the governor. Shefi-Khan was in command of the rebels.

  The old Fat’h-Ali-shah left for Ferahan in order to collect money and gather troops from his sons—the governors of the provinces that had not yet rebelled.

  Griboedov wrote dispatch after dispatch. He wrote them in haste, his teeth clenched, his expression resolute.

  The country was ruined, and Abbas had completely exhausted his resources. Allow him to go to Petersburg? Perhaps form an alliance with him against the Turks? The man’s intentions were honest because the situation had reached a deadlock.

  The answers he received came as if from the world beyond the grave. Pickled Date wrote that he was extremely displeased with Griboedov’s actions. Abbas had to stay in Tabriz; the kurors had not to be written off—everybody knew that Persia was a wealthy country, and he was amazed that the kurors were so slow in coming when they were so badly needed by Cancrin and Volkonsky. He was surprised that Griboedov was not paying a visit to the shah.

  Nesselrode also wrote that he was extremely displeased with his actions. If Persia entered into an alliance with Russia, La Ferronays and the Duke of Wellington would break off their relations with him, and the European balance of power would be seriously threatened. Get the … what are they called? … the kurors … and withdraw the troops from Khoi.

  Paskevich demanded that Griboedov extradite all the runaways, without exception; otherwise, it would be a shame and a disgrace.

  The compass on the Russian ship was all over the place. As in 1814, the swan, the pike, and the crawfish7 pulled the strings, but the swan had long since died, the pike was illiterate, and the crawfish had acquired the post of vice chancellor. The long-deceased swan, the pike, and the crawfish were in agreement about one thing only: money was of the essence. Abbas had no money, so the ball was in the shah’s court.

  Macdonald suggested that Dr. McNeill should be sent over to Tehran to insist that the shah shoulder the burden of the repayments.

  Griboedov thought about it and agreed.

  Macdonald needed it even more than Griboedov.

  It seemed to Griboedov that he wrote to a nonexistent space, that his letters never arrived at their destinations. He inquired about his correspondence. It had arrived all right. Which meant that it had gone unread.

  There was an error in the address; the addressee might not exist.

  He muttered to himself:

  “Swine, swine.”

  He began to question his duties and to cease to comprehend his title, minister plenipotentiary.

  The Persian word vazir-mukhtar seemed clearer to him.

  12

  “First of all, you’ll inform the shah clearly about the Cabinet’s desire to see him allied with the Sultan.”

  “But …”

  “Without committing ourselves.”

  “… Without committing ourselves. But insinuate that there are possibilities. Then you will present him with the crystal that has arrived today.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I have delayed your departure until tomorrow, only on account of the crystal. It is a matter of some importance. I would ask you to arrange the presentation of the gifts as sumptuously as possible. Furthermore, you may wish to inform him that our payments will soon be terminated altogether.”

  McNeill narrowed his eyes. Macdonald was paler than usual. He was touching his mustache with his finger.

  “Isn’t it too risky, sir? I think that right now …”

  “Please execute these orders to the letter. Right now, it is essential. Then, on behalf of the Russian ambassador, you can use the most emphatic terms to demand the payment of the one hundred thousand tumen.”

  “His response will be to refuse, sir.”

  “I hope so—and rudely too.”

  McNeill was beginning to understand. He smiled.

  “Your negotiations with the shah can drag on as long as you like. You can present the other gifts—rings, mirrors, and whatever there is in the five chests—to Manouchehr-Khan, Alaiar-Khan, and Khoja-Yakub. You will talk to them. Has Griboedov said anything to you about the Russian grenadiers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Pity. You might want to meet Samson-Khan and present him with gifts for his daughter. According to my information, she is getting married.”

  “Do I need to talk to him, sir?”

  “Not really. The prince has informed him about the instructions from the Russian government. Take with you tea, as well as penknives, scissors, spectacles; in other words, five bundles from what has just arrived.”

  McNeill was quiet. Then, his eyes still narrowed, he said slowly:

  “Griboedov will go to Tehran himself, then.”

  Macdonald glanced at him briefly.

  “No, he prefers to act from a distance. The prince is in his hands. Besides, he is newly married.”

  “But I know he’ll go,” said McNeill very calmly.

  Macdonald put out his cigar and crushed it with his two fingers against the edge of the ashtray. He was thinking.

  “You might be right. All the better. Inform the Ottoman ambassador about what we discussed yesterday.”

  They got up.

  “I’d ask you to get a move on,” said Macdonald, “and to keep in regular touch. I will respond to you immediately. Twenty men are going with you.”

  Outside the windows, they could hear the sound of horses’ hooves: his wife, Mr. Burgess, Nino Griboedov, and the others were coming back from a ride.

  “Do you remember, Doctor, what Cardinal Richelieu once famously said?”

  The doctor did not remember, nor did he care for classical quotations.

  “He said: he who avoids the game has already lost it. Quod est probandum.8 Do your best. Remember that the prince is entirely under Russian influence. Have a good trip.”

  13

  Griboedov had received an invitation from Abbas Mirza to visit the royal mint.

  Having shrugged his shoulders and called Abbas an old rogue, he set off on a familiar route.

  Ferrashi cudgeled the onlookers and the pedestrians on the backs, and he did not prevent them. Such was the tashahhus.

  He looked at the turret of the palace and the balakhane9 as if they were the Red Gates of Moscow. Except at the top, ancient drums were on display in the balakhane. The sarbazes stood on guard as if they were bystanders, not soldiers.r />
  He entered the side door confidently and went through into an oblong courtyard. He was met there by some chaparkhans, and they took him along the red brick–paved path. He passed through the ferrashi chamber into another rectangular courtyard. And again some chaparkhans joined them. He walked, surrounded by gowns, through the empty divankhane, and two more chaparkhans joined them there. From the rectangular courtyard, they took him into an octagonal one. Along the sides of the room ran huge frames with multicolored glass. The sun shone through them, and they flickered with flecks of bright colors, like kaleidoscopes. Another turret and a tiny little courtyard. The entrance to some tiny chamber. This was Abbas’s mint.

  The doorway was of a sufficient height, but Griboedov bent his head as he went through.

  The entire mint was contained in a single room. It was half-dark in here, after the sun and the kaleidoscope. Half-dark, and even cool because of the earthen floor.

  Abbas sat on a simple wooden throne. He silently motioned to Griboedov to sit.

  In the depths, men without outer garments, half-naked, were making fires in the braziers.

  Griboedov narrowed his eyes; he did not understand. Abbas was sitting upright, wearing a white gown, and his face seemed yellow in the uncertain light. He ignored both Griboedov and the chaparkhans. He was looking at the braziers and the half-naked men.

  This was how the Persian satraps used to torture traitors.

  The fire flared up.

  Abbas never spoke a word.

  The chaparkhans were silent too, and so was Griboedov.

  The logs crackled; the men breathed heavily, swarmed in the corner, squatting.

  The fire flared up.

  Abbas stretched out a bony hand.

  Immediately, the men swarming in the corner got up. They were placing heavy, dull, swollen things on oblong platters.

  And so, staggering under the weight, they stood in a line and began to bring the platters to Abbas.

  Abbas leaned forward.

  He felt the first platter with his hand and pointed his finger at Griboedov.

  Griboedov rose and retreated slightly.

  A huge gold candlestick of ancient craftsmanship, bulging disproportionately in the middle, lay on the platter like dull, dangling bunches of fruit, bubbling with tiny grapes.